


A Reunion of Like Minds

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boarding School, Childhood, Episode: A Study in Pink, Friendship, Gen, High School, Reunions, divergence from canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'A Study In Pink' wasn't the first time John and Sherlock met.</p><p>The meeting at Bart's wasn't an introduction, but a reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blast from the Past

John Watson woke with a gasp, his shoulder burning with phantom pain even as his leg was wracked with agony. He tried to breathe deeply as his heart continued to beat rapidly, adrenalin still flooding his body.

He’d been having nightmares again. A month home from Afghanistan, and it was like his subconscious thought he was still there fighting. The worst part was that for all the danger and chaos and dying soldiers they contained, the nightmares were still better than waking up in his impersonal apartment, and realising that he was facing the rest of his life without purpose, or… anything, really.

God, it was dreary.

With a sigh, John glanced at the clock. It was early, but not too early.

Might as well get up, then, get a head start on trying to find somewhere else to live. His current flat might be better than living with Harry – last week had just been the last straw – but if John didn’t find a flat somewhere else soon, he’d burn through his money fast. London was too expensive to rent a flat of his own for long.

And then, of course, there was the therapist’s appointment. Another joy.

Wincing at the ache in his leg, John sat up, and prepared to start another pointless day.

He wished something would happen. Anything, as long as it took him out of this tedious routine, even if it was only for a little while.

* * *

Meeting Mike Stamford in the park later that day was unexpected, but at this point John would eagerly take anything that made life a little more interesting.

John returned his greeting with some surprise, not least of all because the Mike Stamford he remembered had been a thin gawky bloke with glasses, but then that was middle age for you.

Mike interpreted the look correctly, and a little ruefully.

“Yeah, I know, I got fat,” he agreed, with a grin.

“No, no,” John disclaimed hurriedly, trying to pretend that he hadn’t had that exact thought. 

Mike smiled faintly at his efforts.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot,” John responded succinctly, with a thin smile. 

There was a slight pause.

“Do you want to go get coffee, or tea or something?” Mike suggested, after a moment. “Catch up?”

“Sure. Why not?” It wasn’t like John had anything else to do.

Twenty minutes later found the two of them back in the park, sitting on a bench and drinking their respective teas.

“Are you still at Barts, then?” John asked.

“Teaching now,” Mike nodded, “bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them.”

John laughed politely.

“What about you, just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?” Mike wanted to know.

“I can’t afford London on an army pension.”

“And you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.” Mike smiled knowingly. “That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson –” John began curtly, but broke off. There was an awkward silence, as John stared at his cup and Mike tactfully ignored the burst of temper.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked, with a look of concern.

John laughed derisively.

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” he said bitterly.

Mike’s mouth twisted as he tried to think of something helpful.

“I don’t know, get a flat-share or something?”

“Come on,” John said, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

To his surprise, Mike began to chuckle. John looked at him curiously.

“What?”

“Well,” Mike mused thoughtfully, “You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John frowned.

“Who was the first?”

Mike gave him a speculative look, and grinned.

“Come on. I’ll let you meet him for yourself.”

“Where are we going?” John questioned, reaching for his cane.

“Barts,” was all that Mike would say. “Just wait and see.”

Intrigued now, John agreed.

The two of them flagged down a cab.

* * *

It had been a good number of years since John had last been in Bart’s, and it gave him a strange feeling to be back. Some things were quite familiar, but other things had been updated and changed so that in some ways he hardly recognised the place.

Mike seemed to know exactly where they were going, so John just went along, wondering exactly who this mysterious person was that Mike wanted him to meet.

John followed Mike into one of the labs, Mike considerately holding the door open for him.

“Well.” John glanced around, taking in all the expensive equipment, “It’s a bit different from my day.”

Mike gave a slight chuckle.

“You have no idea.”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” a voice interrupted. “There’s no signal on mine.”

John and Mike looked over at the other occupant of the lab, a well-dressed man in a sharp suit, out of place here, who was doing something with chemicals at the other end of the room.

“And what’s wrong with the land-line?” Mike asked pointedly.

“I prefer to text,” the other man said.

John glanced at him, and frowned. The man in the lab was tall and slender, with dark curly hair, and the sight of him struck an elusive chord in John’s memory.

“Sorry,” Mike replied. “It’s in my coat.”

Ever helpful, John reached into his pocket for his own phone.

“Er – here,” he offered, pulling it out.

The stranger glanced at him, and John found himself looking into a pair of slanting grey eyes he hadn’t seen in years, but which were unmistakeable all the same.

John gaped. It _couldn’t_ be…

“Oh. Thank you,” the other man said politely, and stood. John’s eyes ran over him in much greater detail this time, running a comparison between the man in front of him and the skinny, lanky child that still stood out in John’s memory. There were differences, certainly, but… John could see the boy he knew growing up into the man before him.

Those distinctive eyes flicked over John in a brief and familiar appraisal, one that John would have missed if he hadn’t half been waiting for it. The mannerism removed any final doubts.

Bloody hell. It _was_.

The dark-haired man walked over to take the phone, brow furrowing as his eyes rested on John’s face with sudden searching intensity, as though trying to place him.

“An old friend of mine,” Mike introduced, oblivious to the tension between them. “John Watson.”

The other man stopped dead, stilling completely, his eyes widening in shocked recognition where they were still locked onto John’s face.

John managed a grin, genuine despite his own feelings of shock.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock repeated, in tones of wonder. “John Watson. It’s been _years_.” His eyes swept over John again, cataloguing changes, this time.

“God, I know,” John laughed, doing the calculation in his head. “It’s been, what… 22 years? But look at you. I mean…” he waved a hand over Sherlock’s tall frame, clad in its carefully well turned-out ensemble. “Last time I saw you, you were about a foot shorter.”

“Yes. I remember you being taller.” Sherlock circled him, grinning. “What have you been doing? No, don’t tell me. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John grinned delightedly at the deduction.

“Afghanistan. What about you, what do you do?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock explained, turning to the woman who had just entered the room. 

“Ah, Molly. Coffee, thank you.” Sherlock accepted the mug and went right on talking. “When the police are out of their depth, they come to me.”

He said this with some pride, and the small, oddly-shy smile John remembered.

“Detective?” John repeated in surprise. “So, you... after Carl Powers…”

Sherlock’s expression soured.

“Let’s just say that after that, I was certain that this was what I wanted to do.”

“You two know each other?” 

An astonished Mike had finally managed to break into the conversation.

“Oh, yeah, Sherlock and I were friends at school,” John told him cheerfully, wanting to laugh at Mike’s gobsmacked expression. “Skinny little kid who used to piss everyone off, and the sixth-form scholarship boy no one else would talk to. We made a weird pair,” John smiled in memory.

“Like I’ve always said, _idiots_ ,” Sherlock interjected. “How do you feel about the violin?”

“Depends,” John mused. “Do you still play like you’re possessed by a particularly raucous spirit?”

Sherlock smirked at the description.

“Sometimes. Especially when Mycroft visits. You’re already acquainted with most of my bad habits, so I won’t list them, but I’ve been reliably informed that I’m far more insufferable than when I was a child. As a potential flatmate, you might want to take that into consideration.”

Sherlock’s expression was carefully bland.

John stared at him suspiciously, contemplating his words.

“Do you still do all those mad experiments?”

“Yes.”

“Forget to eat and sleep when it’s inconvenient?”

“I never _forgot_ , I chose not to,” Sherlock corrected.

“Make intrusive observations about everyone you meet and generally make people want to punch you in the face?”

“Oh, I’ve thoroughly refined my skill at the latter,” Sherlock told John, his eyes shining with mirth.

John sighed. Only Sherlock would decide to turn social ineptitude into a deliberate weapon.

“Right. Of course you have. Still, you said ‘thank you’ before, which means at least you come with manners now, which was a feature you didn’t have, last time. I’ll survive, I think.”

Sherlock beamed widely at him.

“Fantastic! I’ve got my eyes on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow, seven o clock. 221B Baker Street.”

“That should be fine,” John agreed, as Sherlock collected his scarf and coat and began to put them on. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“You…” _left your riding crop in the mortuary?_ “It was an experiment, wasn’t it?”

John wondered uneasily if Sherlock’s experiments often involved dead people, these days. He had a horrible feeling that they did.

“Of course.” On his way to the door, Sherlock hesitated in front of John. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He seemed to reach a decision, and went through his pockets for a pen. Before John could ask, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pushed up John’s sleeve.

“What –” John started, and broke off, staring in bewilderment as Sherlock scrawled something across his bare skin.

“My phone number,” Sherlock explained, straightening up and capping the pen while John peered at his inked wrist.

John glanced back at his old friend. Despite all the changes that had taken place as Sherlock reached adulthood, he still looked enough like his childhood self for John to easily see that he was _happy_.

“By the way,” Sherlock added, his hand on the door-knob, “it’s very good to see you, John. Tomorrow.”

He gave John a cheeky wink, farewelled Mike and Molly, and left.

A moment later, and John started laughing helplessly, a bubble of warmth bursting in his chest.

God. Sherlock. Who would have thought?

“Bloody hell, he’s just the same,” he told Mike, trying to contain the laughter, but it kept spilling out. “Only, a snappy dresser and a lot taller. Magnificent.”

“Fucking unbelievable,” said Mike.

John shook his head, unable to stop smiling, while the woman who’d brought Sherlock the coffee watched them with diffident curiosity.

“I can’t believe you know him. Were _friends_ with him,” Mike sighed, shaking his head as though he couldn’t comprehend the idea. “I mean, he doesn’t bother me too much – some people he just sends bonkers – but friends?”

“So, you went to school with him, then?” Molly asked, “What was he like?”

John thought about the question, dredging up memories that hadn’t been stirred in a long time.

“Skinny kid, frighteningly precocious,” he decided. “No social skills whatsoever. But somehow, he was completely adorable – _don’t_ tell him I said that, for God’s sake, but he was.”

“ _Adorable?_ ” Mike repeated incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Molly offered, smiling nervously.

John smiled back.

“Thanks. Oh, uh, I’m John Watson, by the way.”

“Molly Hooper,” Molly said shyly. “I’m the um, attendant.”

“Right, well, nice to meet you.”

John grinned to himself. For the first time since he’d returned from Afghanistan, things were looking up. Of all the things that might have happened, this was one of the last things John would have anticipated.

He found himself looking forward to tomorrow, and wondered what kind of person Sherlock had grown into.

* * *

On his way back to his current lodgings, John couldn’t believe his chances. Meeting Sherlock again, after all those years – more than two decades had passed – right when he needed a flatmate. It was surreal, seeing the man that his old friend had become.

John glanced down at his wrist, pulling back his sleeve to examine the phone number there. There was no doubt that Sherlock had been glad to see him. If Mike’s dumbfounded look and John’s own recollections were any indication, John had been given what, in Sherlock terms, amounted to an ecstatic welcome.

Sherlock still thought of him fondly, then, even though he’d only been twelve the last time they’d seen each other. Not for the first time, John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t written. He’d seen determined to, at the end of that final term; John wondered what had changed.

Maybe, John thought, he’d finally get an answer. It had hurt never to hear another word from him; despite the age difference, he had genuinely thought of Sherlock as a friend, and felt fondly towards him. He’d missed Sherlock for ages, after graduation.

The cab pulled up at John’s destination, and he paid the cabbie and got out, wincing at the stiffness in his leg. Psychosomatic or not, it was still damn painful sometimes.

Well. There was nothing else to do right now, not until tomorrow. Maybe there was something on telly he could watch, John thought. Another night sitting in front of the television watching god-awful programs, wishing he was doing pretty much anything  else. Fantastic.

His leg twinged at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we start off following canon... and then it diverges, ten minutes in. A brief beginning, I know, but I didn't just want to spend a heap of time rehashing the episode verbatim.


	2. 221B

In John’s final year of school, he had been awarded a scholarship to a very select, prestigious school with a long, impressive history, far beyond the Watson’s income. John’s parents had been very pleased and proud, and John had been pretty happy himself; he wanted to study medicine, after graduation, and if he worked hard and did well enough in his final year, he figured he’d have a pretty good chance, and going to a good school would help open doors for him.

It hadn’t really occurred to John that the place would be full of toffee-nosed berks with posh accents and a general disdain for anyone who didn’t come from their own privileged backgrounds. The moment John opened his mouth he was treated with contempt, and once the word got around that John was ‘a scholarship boy’… well, life became pretty hellish, after that.

There wasn’t anyone John could complain to without making things worse, and John couldn’t even tell his parents about it – they’d been so thrilled for him, and they would have been crushed if they knew that his ‘fantastic opportunity’ was turning out to be so bloody _awful_. 

So John mostly kept his head down, grimly ignored the insults and spiteful pranks, and tried to bury himself in his schoolwork. He ended up spending most of his time in the library, either studying or reading quietly by himself. It was lonely, though, especially since John had always been pretty popular, before. Being alone all the time was a new thing, and a miserable one. John was stubborn, though, and he wasn’t going to let a bunch of entitled gits get the better of him, particularly not when it was so important.

Things had continued like that for a while, and then things had changed in the person of a skinny, dishevelled twelve year old boy named Sherlock Holmes.

John had been sitting in the library, reading, more or less hiding from his peers, when the odd kid had approached him and rattled off a set of deductions about why John was always in the library on his own and how the other boys treated him. John had been taken-aback, but he’d also been genuinely impressed. Sherlock had been strange, but interesting, and John had reacted with a kind of baffled amusement to his inept overtures. 

For Sherlock, who was awkward and peculiar and painfully bright, John’s response to his intrusive observations had been unprecedentedly friendly. After that, he continued to seek John out, and somehow the two of them had become friends, despite the five-year age gap and the dramatic difference in disposition. They’d made a bizarre pair, the scrawny little genius and the pragmatic sixth-former, but John could honestly say that he’d never had a friend like Sherlock before or since. His unrelenting brilliance and artless remarks made him singular among John’s acquaintances.

Sherlock’s friendship had been the one thing that made that year bearable for John, and he suspected that Sherlock, ostracised and bullied by his peers, had craved genuine companionship just as desperately.

John wasn’t sure if that current of mutual understanding and liking still existed between them, but God, he hoped so.

* * *

John arrived at 221B the next morning precisely on seven, before Sherlock.

While he was knocking on the door a cab pulled up in front of the building, and Sherlock stepped out of it, as stylishly-dressed as the day before.

He projected an air of careless elegance, John thought, eying the long coat and the carefully-tied scarf and the neat tumble of black curls. Quite different from the urchin John remembered with the torn uniform and riotous head of hair.

John couldn’t help grinning a bit, remembering how many times he’d forced Sherlock to stand still while he picked twigs or leaves or bits of cobweb out of that hair.

“John,” Sherlock greeted him.

“Sherlock.”

Smiling, Sherlock offered a hand, which John happily shook. 

“Find the riding crop, then?” John cocked an eyebrow at him, grinning.

“What? Oh. Yes.” Sherlock’s lips twitched. 

“You know, I’m not even going to ask,” John told him. He glanced back at the flat door, and around at their surroundings. “This is a prime spot. It must be expensive.”

“Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s given me a special deal – owes me a favour. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out,” Sherlock explained.

“So, you stopped her husband being executed?” John asked.

“Oh, no. I ensured it.” The twist of Sherlock’s mouth was distinctly puckish.

While John was still blinking at this, the front door of 221B opened, and an older woman stepped forward, holding her arms out to Sherlock in welcome.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock willingly stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a firm hug. John wondered curiously exactly what their relationship was.

“Mrs Hudson, my friend, Dr John Watson,” Sherlock introduced. “Shall we?” He gestured inside.

John flushed in gratification, a warm feeling rising in his chest at the words ‘ _my friend_.’

“Ah, sure.”

He followed Sherlock up the stairs, Mrs Hudson following behind, leaning heavily on his cane and making his way up with difficulty.

Sherlock reached the landing quite quickly and turned to look at the other two, his eyebrows rising as he saw John struggling with the stairs.

“Your limp is entirely psychosomatic, you realise,” was his helpful contribution.

“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” John groused. “It’s one thing to know that intellectually, and another to convince my subconscious.”

Sherlock considered this for a second, before clearly dismissing it as unimportant, turning to enter the flat.

It was a nice flat, John decided, looking around, although it was terribly cluttered, most of the available space taken up by books piled haphazardly and open boxes – even the furniture was crowded by objects, the space on the sitting room table taken up by several beakers and _more_ boxes, the chairs similarly occupied. There was a trunk full of books taking up a large portion of the floor, and a violin was leaning up against it.

John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and realisation as he took in the skull on the mantle and the box with the pinned bird specimen.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Sherlock, is all of this yours?” John asked accusingly, turning a second time to absorb the entirety of the mess.

Sherlock looked around like he was seeing the disorder for the first time, which he probably was, John thought, torn between rueful amusement and irritation.

Sherlock’s eyes, when they met his, were vaguely abashed.

“Obviously, I can, um…” Sherlock cleared his throat self-consciously, making an attempt to tidy his things a little, “straighten up.” 

Sherlock’s efforts to make the flat look a little more organised were blatantly inadequate. He seemed to realise this.

“A bit,” Sherlock added, revising his assessment of his own tidying abilities downwards to something more realistic. 

John decided to skip over the issue of the state of the flat altogether for the moment, even though this meant that the bulk of keeping the place neat and clean would probably fall to him, since Sherlock was clearly hopeless.

“Is that a skull?” he asked instead.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock responded, apparently unaware of the fact that this was an unusual thing to say. He glanced at it. “Well, I say friend…”

John began to giggle. He couldn’t help it – it was just too mad.

Sherlock turned to look at him inquiringly, faintly puzzled, and John just shook his head, unable to explain, still giggling.

Sherlock smiled back, still confused, but accurately gauging John’s mirth as free of malice. 

Sherlock walked to the table and removed his coat, folding it across the back of a chair, looking pleased with himself. He was wearing another impeccable suit, John saw. He wondered when that had happened. Well, Sherlock had always been a bit vain.

“What do you think, then, Dr Watson?” Mrs Hudson asked cheerfully. She seemed like a perfectly nice woman. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two,” John said, brow creasing. She couldn’t be insinuating what he thought she was, could she…?

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here,” Mrs Hudson assured him confidingly. “Mrs Turner next door’s got _married ones_.”

Apparently, she could.

John stared, his mouth slightly open, and instinctively glanced at Sherlock, who was transferring books from the trunk to the corner bookcase. He met John’s eyes for an instant, and while his expression was impassive his eyes were amused at the landlady’s assumptions.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson had just seen state of the kitchen, “the mess you’ve made!”

Sherlock ignored this exclamation completely, and continued finding places for things.

John cleared stuff off one of the armchairs and sat down, feeling amused. He had a very strong feeling that whatever else he might be, living here, he wasn’t going to be bored.

“So,” he opined, watching Sherlock, “I see tidiness still isn’t your strong suit.”

Sherlock considered this statement, and clearly saw nothing to object to in it. He didn’t bother to respond.

“Why the skull?” John asked. “Where would you get a skull, anyway?”

Sherlock paused in opening his laptop.

“I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

John raised his eyebrows. That just deepened the mystery, but John didn’t want to pry. Oh, alright, he _did_ , but he wasn’t going to.

“Okay then.”

“What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asked, glancing at a newspaper. “I thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

Sherlock stared out the window, his attention clearly elsewhere. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Four,” Sherlock amended absently. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs Hudson questioned, in confusion, but Sherlock was turning to the door.

Barely a second later a grey-haired man came up the stairs and walked into the flat, his eyes on Sherlock.

“Where?” Sherlock asked, without preamble. 

John just watched, completely lost. Suicides? What?

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the newcomer said grimly.

“What’s new about this one?” Sherlock’s brain had clearly kicked into a higher gear. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?” the man asked rhetorically.

“Yeah.” Sherlock’s eyes brightened a shade in anticipation.

“This one did,” the grey-haired man finished. “Will you come?”

Sherlock’s head tilted back, and he regarded the other man with calculating eyes. A thought occurred to him.

“Who’s on forensics?” he demanded.

“Anderson,” the stranger sighed.

Sherlock made a face, and looked away.

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” the other man said exasperatedly.

“I _need_ an assistant,” Sherlock insisted. His expression became suddenly animated, and he turned to John.

John wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming.

“John! You could be my assistant!” Sherlock exclaimed happily, confirming John’s expectations.

“What? No,” said John, but Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention. John met the eyes of the man by the door – a policeman, John assumed – wondering if Sherlock was always like this. The other man’s resigned eyes suggested that yes, Sherlock was always _exactly_ like this.

“You’re an army doctor,” Sherlock pointed out, ignoring John’s protest.

“Medic,” John corrected, automatically.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths,” Sherlock continued, unheeding. “Bit of trouble too, I bet?”

John sighed.

“You know I have.”

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock regarded him hopefully, eyes alight. John couldn’t resist that expression.

“God, yes,” he admitted.

Sherlock clapped his hands together jubilantly. 

“Brilliant! Yes! Four suicides, and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas. Lestrade, this is Dr Watson, John, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Come along.”

“Wait, Sherlock, you can’t just invite –” the DI began.

But Sherlock was in a whirl of delight and paid no notice.

“Look at you all happy, it’s not decent,” scolded Mrs Hudson.

John couldn’t help laughing. For all Sherlock had changed, in some ways he was just the same. Still no idea about what was appropriate.

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”

Sherlock rushed out, yelling for a taxi.

John smiled apologetically at Lestrade, who looked put-upon.

“Sorry about this,” he said, before grabbing his cane. “Bye Mrs Hudson!” he called over his shoulder, and followed after his demented friend. 


End file.
